


Get over your hill and see what you find there

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, romantic comedy tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three things Enjolras would like to know right now:</p><p>One, who let Courfeyrac plan Marius' bachelor party? (Marius. Marius let him.)</p><p>Two, why the hell did Grantaire sneak out of his bed before Enjolras woke up yesterday, right after they slept together for the first time.</p><p>And three, why on earth would he get drunk, get into an argument (with Grantaire, obviously) and then get married in Vegas (guess to whom, come on and guess).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get over your hill and see what you find there

The whole thing is mostly Courfeyrac’s fault, when you think of it.

(When you really think of it, when Enjolras stops and considers, at four in the morning when Grantaire is asleep and breathing steadily, hair obscuring his face, pillow creases on his chin after he turns his head and... right, when you think of it, it’s mostly all Enjolras’ fault really.)

But if he assigns the blame to Courfeyrac, he also has to give him his due and give him all the thanks.

(Enjolras deserves no credit, but he’ll take the reward, he’s selfish enough in this.)

It’s Courfeyrac’s fault, then, because it’s Courfeyrac’s idea to go to Vegas in the first place, because someone put him in charge of Marius’ bachelor’s party and oh god.

Well, Marius. Marius put him in charge of his bachelor’s party and he really should know better by now.

Bahorel snorted when he heard that and said that if Marius gets lost and they get into a situation with a tiger and or a monkey and a baby, he only has himself to blame.

And Courfeyrac, one should never forget about assigning blame to Courfeyrac.

(Courfeyrac is awfully pleased with himself).

*

“You never know,” Cosette tells him, crossing her arms as she leans against Enjolras’ desk. “You might even have fun.”

Enjolras gives her a look. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to say anything.

She sighs at him, but the corners of her mouth are pulled upwards in a smile. “You can also go with us to the spa resort. These are your choices, Enjolras, so think well on them.”

“What kind of a spa resort?” he asks.

“That would be much more convincing if I didn’t know you love all of them, you know.”

“Yes, but, Vegas,” he mutters. 

“I swear, if the next sentence out of your mouth contains the words capitalistic, debauchery, morals, or blasphemous, I am braining you with this paperweight,” she says sweetly. “Just go, have fun, and make sure no one loses my fiance two days before the wedding.”

“Out of interest, how do you think I could stop them if they tried?”

“Tell them my Dad loves Marius and he’d hunt them down.”

He nods. “Well, that’d do it.” Cosette’s father is a great man, but he can be absolutely petrifying and that’s _before_ you learn about his time in prison. He’s also never told them what exactly he did time for and Cosette laughs at them every time anyone asks her.

He folds the shirt and stares at his suitcase for a longer moment, wondering what he forgot. It must be something, and it’s nagging at his brain, and only if he could concentrate...

“Okay, this can’t be only about your views on Vegas,” Cosette mutters, leaving her spot by the desk and moving to sit on the bed, curling her legs up under herself. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he tells her, because it’s her wedding in two days and her hen night tonight and the last she needs is for him to talk about his problems.

Not that he has any, except for whatever he forgot to pack and what’s going to turn out to be crucial later, he knows. 

“Why are you still here?” Eponine asks, poking her head into the room and making a face at Enjolras when she catches his look. “Mush, mush, Musichetta is waiting downstairs.” With perfect timing, there’s loud honking from outside. “She’s double parked, too, so. We don’t want to start the day with a ticket.”

“You honestly think we couldn’t talk our way out of a ticket?” Cosette asks incredulously, but she stands up anyway. “With Musichetta on our side?”

Eponine nods, conceding the point, then cocks a finger gun at Enjolras. “Don’t call us for bail,” she warns.

“Call Dad,” Cosette adds and they disappear, laughing, before Enjolras can sputter and ask why do they think they’d need bail.

And then he remembers that it’s Vegas and Courfeyrac’s and Marius’ bachelor’s and _Courfeyrac_. He runs through his list of possible excuses and once again comes up empty. Even sticking a thermometer into hot water probably wouldn’t help, especially since a) he’s not twelve and b) _Joly_.

No choice but to face the music, he guesses. And scantily clad dancers and bright lights and _Vegas_ and gods, why. He needs new friends.

*

And then he gets stuck in a car with Grantaire for a better part of five hours.

That’s a great start to the trip, right there.

*

Alright, so, it’s not about _Grantaire._

It’s about Enjolras and how he was kidding himself. How he misunderstood what he thought were signs. And he doesn’t even believe in signs, that’s such a ridiculous, phoney concept, made-up for the sole purpose of selling movie tickets and young adult novels.

Alright, two things. One, he should really rethink making a speech at the wedding. And two, he really, seriously needs to get this under control.

After all, it’s not a big deal, it really isn’t, not the part where they slept together and not the part where Grantaire was gone by the time Enjolras woke up. (He woke up with the sun shining into his face, because he forgot to close the window in the evening, mostly because he was otherwise occupied. He closed his eyes tightly and rolled to the side, wanting to hide his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, but he was met with a cold pillow and a decisive lack of _Grantaire_ , who must have left ages ago.)

And now he’s stuck in the car with him, because Joly is extremely selective about who he lets into his car and because Courfeyrac and Marius left earlier and because Combeferre gets vaguely carsick if he’s not driving and it all somehow added up to Combeferre driving and Enjolras trying not to catch glimpses of Grantaire in the rearview mirror and Grantaire sprawled in the backseat, pretending to be asleep.

His breathing is laboured and steady, but he’s tense and uneasy all over and every once in a while, Enjolras will catch his eyes flickering open before he closes them tightly again.

He doesn’t weep with relief once they pull over at a gas station and he can get out for a few minutes, but it’s pretty damn close. Grantaire wanders off, muttering something about needing a cigarette fucking badly and telling them to consider not leaving without him. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What are you two fighting about this time?” Combeferre asks, leaning against the hood. 

“We’re not,” Enjolras says bitterly. He might prefer it if they were, to be honest. This, Grantaire barely speaking two words to him, Grantaire avoiding him, is unprecedented and confusing and hurts more than he expected it would.

“Uh-uh,” Combeferre mutters thoughtfully. “Just so you know, being stuck in the car with both of you is utter torture and it is a testament to my patience that I’m not leaving you both here to fend for yourself and maybe work out whatever you’re not fighting about while you try and make your way back to the civilisation.”

“One, there was a town we just passed two miles from here. And two, you seriously need to stop watching romantic comedies, they have addled your brain.”

“Eponine likes them,” he says, shrugging.

Enjolras gives him a look. “No, she doesn’t. She pretends to like them because she knows you do. She makes puking sounds at the mere mention of Meg Ryan’s name,” he adds.

“Take that back, Meg Ryan is a goddess,” Combeferre tells him, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “I’m dropping this for now, but only because I’m going to be stuck in that car with you for the next four hours or more and I don’t think Cosette would appreciate a murder happening so close before her wedding.”

“You’re a saint,” Enjolras tells him darkly and gets an unimpressed look. 

“And don’t you forget it.”

*

There’s alcohol on Grantaire’s breath when he comes back and he meets Enjolras’ eyes defiantly, daring him to comment. Enjolras bites his tongue (literally, he can almost taste the coppery tang of blood) and tightens his hand around the armrest.

Combeferre rolls the windows down and shakes his head. The look he gives Enjolras is calling him out on his bullshit, except Enjolras hasn’t lied, they really aren’t fighting.

Well, to be absolutely honest, they haven’t quite finished their argument from last night, but he doesn’t think that counts. 

It wasn’t a meeting night, but they all gravitated to Musain easily enough on other evenings as well, and most of them were there, save for Feuilly and Bahorel (work), Joly (volunteering shift), Combeferre (grading papers) and Marius (dinner with Cosette). Grantaire came in late in the evening, in quite a good mood, apparently due to a painting he managed to sell.

“And they overpaid to boot, so the next round’s on me,” he laughed, sliding into his usual spot in the corner. 

“Which painting?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire frowned at him, as if surprised for some strange reason. Grantaire’s work was put up last week by the gallery downtown, they all went there on a group trip of support (Eponine’s words). And why was Grantaire still staring at him?

“Girl with the mirror,” Grantaire offered after a moment, probably seconds before the silence stretched into truly uncomfortable. “That’s the one-”

“Cosette posed for, yes,” Enjolras nodded. “I’m not surprised it sold first.”

“She’s a great model, so yeah. I’m sure it will be the last, though?”

“Really?” Enjolras said absently, accepting his coffee from the waitress and considering if he was in the mood for cream. Probably not. “I’m not.”

This time, when the silence stretched out again between them, he looked up to see Grantaire staring at him like he was trying to figure him out. The look in his eyes was unsettling, but not unwelcome, the kind of warmth Enjolras started to appreciate and then secretly crave those past few months. 

“Alright, it’s decided,” Courfeyrac said then, raising his voice. “We’re all leaving at ten tomorrow, meeting point at my place.” Enjolras sighed and downed half of his coffee. 

“Vegas, that’s so great,” Grantaire said, his tone light and cheerful and Enjolras gave him a disbelieving look before he responded.

It took him five minutes to realise Grantaire was smiling behind his hand in between pointed comments that only served to make Enjolras talk faster and gesture wider. 

“Are you seriously trying to wind me up?” he asked suspiciously and Grantaire shrugged, clearly not ashamed, the gesture clearly intended as a ‘what you’re gonna do about this.’ “Alright,” he nodded, moving to sit more comfortably, leaning in over the table to stare at Grantaire. “Let me begin with a brief overview of gambling laws,” he said and Grantaire laughed, sounding positively delighted.

It turned into Grantaire proclaiming absolutely ridiculous things just to mess with him, and the joy he seemed to take from that was more visible than usual. Enjolras knew Grantaire liked to argue for argument’s sake, they’ve done this often enough, but this seemed more... 

More. 

And then somehow...

But now they’re stuck in the car, Grantaire has his flask out even if he’s not yet drinking from it (unless he made a great headstart at the station and the damn thing is empty now) and Enjolras stares out of the window and pretends that none of this bothers him.

“I spy with my little eye,” Combeferre says and Enjolras rolls his eyes before patiently waiting for the last of the sentence. It doesn’t arrive.

“That’s not even how you play that game,” he offers.

“It’s still better than the great round of the quiet game you two have had going on.”

“Turn on the radio,” Grantaire offers from the back. Splendid piece of advice, Enjolras doesn’t say but he can’t help turning his head and raising his eyebrows at Grantaire, who shrugs back at him.

He’s resting his head against the window and his collar is open enough that Enjolras can see the marks on his neck. He remembers leaving them, remembers pressing Grantaire against the wall of his hallway the moment they got home, remembers the reluctance with which he pulled himself away from Grantaire’s lips but the sounds he made when Enjolras kissed and licked and bit his way down his neck were enough of a reward.

“Want some, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, holding up his flask. Enjolras catches his smirk in the rearview mirror once he turns back to look ahead.

Last night, in the hallway, Grantaire put his hand on Enjolras’ chest, his fingers grasping at Enjolras’ shirt, and he laughed breathlessly, shaking his head at himself. “Come on, Apollo, lead the way to the bedroom.”

“I believe we’ve been properly introduced at one point or another,” Enjolras told him, pulling away slightly.

“Is this your fancy way of saying I should know your name because I’ll be screaming it later?” Grantaire asked flatly, his dry tone belied by the gleam in his eyes and the way his lips were still swollen and his face flushed and why weren’t they in the bedroom yet? “Very well then, come on, Enjolras.”

Enjolras rarely needed to be told something twice.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with F,” he says and Grantaire closes his eyes and settles in to pretend he’s falling asleep again and Combeferre doesn’t even look at him when he’s turning the radio on and shifting through the stations.

*

Grantaire is out of the car the moment they pull over at the hotel’s parking lot, completely ruining the whole thing he had going on where he still stubbornly pretended to be asleep. 

He picks up his bag from the trunk, swinging it onto his shoulder and fiddling with the strap as he waits for them to get a move on. He still doesn’t look at Enjolras, but clasps his hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and mutters something before heading inside.

Enjolras tries not to stare after him and is decidedly unsuccessful.

“What did he...” he starts and Combeferre sighs, handing him his suitcase. 

“He apologised for being a shit on the way over and for riling you up. Still want to pretend you’re not arguing?”

“How do you know you’re in love with someone?” Enjolras asks and it’s not what he meant to say at all.

At all.

Combeferre, to his credit, doesn’t even blink, just closes the trunk and leans against it. “I assume by ‘you’ you are referring to humans in general and yourself in particular. And I guess most people figure it out somehow in between the desire and the affection. I’ve also heard that all the songs make sense,” he adds, smiling slightly, then sighs. “Let me clear it up for you though: yeah, you are.”

“You don’t even...”

“With Grantaire,” Combeferre says and Enjolras shuts his mouth. “It’s been going on for months and it wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

That’s what he’s afraid of, to be honest. That everyone can see this. That _Grantaire_ can see this and that’s why he left, because it was fine for one night but not for... 

“Am I that transparent?” he asks and he hates the way his voice comes out, he hates being uncertain, nervous, even if it’s just in front of Combeferre who certainly had seen him at his worst. 

Combeferre snorts. “I’ve known you from how long now? Yes, you are. I don’t think anyone else realised yet, though. If you wish to keep a lid on that, you better stop staring at him like that though,” he mutters and then puts his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’ll bet all the money I have to my name, dollars against peanuts, that Grantaire doesn’t know, though.”

“Please stop talking about gambling, you’re making me nervous.”

Combeferre nods and accepts the change of subject, picking up his own suitcase and pocketing his keys. “We haven’t even started on that, but I’m sure Courf has plans.”

*

Courfeyrac’s entertainment plans apparently involve a burlesque show that even Enjolras can sit through, surprised though he is. He’s also arranged for one of the performers to drag Marius onto the stage and that _no one_ should be forced to sit through but at least Cosette should appreciate the pictures.

Enjolras would probably appreciate it more if he wasn’t busy counting Grantaire’s drinks.

He makes sure not to say anything, not to glare, because he’s been told enough times that it’s none of his fucking business and more often than not his comments only make Grantaire switch the glass for a bottle. 

“Someone is being a buzzkill,” Courfeyrac says, plopping down next to Enjolras. There’s glitter in his hair and lipstick on his collar and Enjolras pointedly shakes off the arm Courfeyrac throws over his shoulders.

“Let me guess, that would be me,” he says flatly.

“Got it in one, well done. The judgment is coming off in waves and lowering the fun factor of the whole room, so do everyone a favor and drink this,” he says, pushing a glass of whiskey towards Enjolras. 

Combeferre looks like he wants to say something, but he’s cut off by Grantaire snorting loudly, muttering something under his breath that sounds like “that would be the day,” and Enjolras stares at him for a few seconds, which is few seconds too long, and he feels adrift and tethered at the same time, and he can’t look away and he can’t keep looking.

He reaches for the glass and downs it in one go, welcoming the burning sensation in his throat. Grantaire’s eyes are dark and inscrutable. Enjolras feels like he’s drowning in them, his throat dry and his breath short. 

Courfeyrac is slow-clapping at him and Bahorel whistles quietly but Enjolras ignores them in favour of studying Grantaire’s expression, or rather the careful lack of it, the normally animated features schooled down. And he knows this is his fault, he just doesn’t know what exactly it is that he’s done, what Grantaire feels like he needs to hide from him now, why he was so closed off during the whole ride here, _why he left_.

He keeps coming back to that, to Grantaire’s open face and laughing eyes the night before, the empty bed this morning. If there’s one thing he can see in Grantaire’s eyes now, it’s defiant challenge, hard and sharp, and it settles in his stomach like a cold stone.

Enjolras grabs the bottle from the table, not even bothering to check what it is, and takes a swing, then another. Courfeyrac’s clapping dies out into stunned silence and Enjolras puts down the bottle with a heavy clink.

“I stand corrected, _this_ is the depressing part,” Courfeyrac mutters. “Thanks for proving me wrong, man. Thanks.”

“Any time,” Enjolras tells him, and his voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears. Grantaire is the one to reach for the bottle next, like he’s determined to match Enjolras. Enjolras thinks of pointing out that he had a pretty goddamn good headstart.

This is the moment where things begin to go downhill.

Well, maybe not _begin_.

*

People filter in and out for the whole evening. Courfeyrac drags Marius out to the poker tables and seeing Marius try to bluff is enough of an enticement for almost everyone to follow them. Joly makes a bit of money asking Bousset what to bet on and doing the complete opposite. Combeferre takes a phonecall and doesn’t come back for at least half an hour and his face is a deep shade of red when he does, which means the girls are having fun at their party and Eponine called to tell him all about it, embellishing most of the details.

Enjolras doesn’t move from their table and neither does Grantaire.

Grantaire almost stands up a few times, but Enjolras finds that all he has to do is raise an eyebrow and Grantaire will sit back, mouth pressed into thin line, like he doesn’t want to lose the masochistic game they’re playing that no one really knows the rules to.

He doesn’t quite remember who starts the argument. It probably is something about Courfeyrac’s complaining that Marius hasn’t done anything ridiculous enough to make for a good wedding speech yet and someone asks Enjolras if he really is planning on doing a speech of his own.

Details are fuzzy.

At some point though, Grantaire leans in over the table, looking animated for the first time today. “You’re giving a speech? What about, Enjolras? Isn’t the party line still about relationships being a distraction?”

Enjolras vaguely recalls saying something like that at some point, when Marius’ infatuation was particularly grating on his nerves and Cosette, usually a reasonable and capable woman, was asking him things like ‘but does he really like me’ and wished everyone just _stopped._

“In their initial stages, most certainly,” he offers. “How can you devote your time and efforts to a cause when you are hopelessly devoted to another person?”

“Multitasking, Apollo, you usually espouse the values of that. And even if you find yourself incapable of that, I’m pretty sure it’s irrelevant in your case, as I doubt any person would sway you away from your causes in the first place,” Grantaire says, harshly. His eyes are even darker now, with a steely shine to them. 

He’s probably drunker than he looks, drunker than he sounds; must be, given the amount he drunk and Enjolras lost count a while ago. He knows he’s drunk himself, can feel the lightheadedness and everything started to be slightly fuzzy a while ago (everything but Grantaire, him he can see clearly), but he can’t leave, can’t stop himself. It’s a good thing they’re currently alone at the table, their friends somewhere on the dancefloor or wherever else.

“Why did you leave?” he asks and can tell Grantaire deliberates pretending to misunderstand. “This morning,” he pushes. “Why did you leave.”

Grantaire’s smile is sharp and tense, not reaching his eyes. “Do I honestly need to explain this? In the case of a one night stand, one of the involved parties makes themselves scarce. It was your apartment, so it was hardly going to be you, Apollo.”

“Could you please stop calling me that?” he intercedes, but Grantaire probably doesn’t even hear him.

“Of course, I can’t blame you for ignorance, it’s clear you have no experience with this.”

“As clear as the fact you’ve had a lot,” he shoots back and thinks he should want to take it back, but he’s absurdly, guiltily pleased when Grantaire flinches, some of his calm condescendence slipping.

“If this is the height of your wit, I am honestly looking forward to your speech. It should be a hoot, with you knowing nothing of relationships, less alone marriage.”

“You’re one to talk. Have any of your so-called relationships lasted more than a night?”

“Ah, Apollo, but I’m not the one giving a speech,” he offers, saluting with his glass. “And staying away from relationships and marriage is a valid lifestyle choice, as you remind us. There are other worthy pursuits, and for the night, mine is another bottle of this excellent whiskey,” he says brightly, flagging down a waitress.

“You don’t ever think of marrying someone?” Enjolras asks, and it bothers him. That’s not a new feeling, the fact that some of Grantaire’s proclamations about not wanting, not caring, unsettle him, like a very slow and very cold punch in the gut. Some of them, the worst ones, are things he remembers telling Grantaire himself, long time ago, because he knew better. 

Grantaire opens his arms theatrically. “Apollo, who’d marry me?” There are words that want to spill out of Enjolras’ mouth and he actively works to swallow them, wash them down with whiskey. “The only thing funnier than the thought of you marrying someone is someone marrying me,” he adds and Enjolras can’t hold it back anymore.

“I would.”

Grantaire freezes for a second, then explodes in laughter, with an ugly tinge of hysterics to it. “I’d tell you to put your money where your mouth is, but we all know your views on gambling, Apollo.”

He’s still laughing when the waitress finally gets to them, but it dies out when Enjolras asks her where the nearest wedding chapel is. She looks between them with a smile before answering and offers congratulations.

“I didn’t take you for a prankster,” Grantaire tells him.

“Chickening out already?” Enjolras says and he knows, by the way Grantaire laughs again, shakes his head and says “fuck no,” that he _is_ seriously, honestly drunk and that Enjolras is not thinking this through and that it is one of the worst ideas he ever had.

He can’t quite figure out the reasons though.

*

His head is made of lead and cotton rags when he wakes up, and his mouth tastes foul, ashen. His skin feels too hot, itching all over, and he apparently slept in his pants and it’s really uncomfortable.

And then there’s the weight of Grantaire half draped over him, arm thrown over Enjolras’ waist, and he’s too heavy and it’s too hot, and he is drooling onto Enjolras’ chest.

Enjolras tightens his arm around him.

So, that... happened. He stares at his hand, with the cheap ring from the chapel shop that already started to turn his finger green. So, that happened. 

Fuck, it was a terrible idea and he must have been drunk out of his mind and Grantaire was probably worse.

Still, he thinks with dark satisfaction, at least he hasn’t snuck out.

“What,” Grantaire drawls, half-asleep still, rolling to the side. He covers his eyes with his hand and practically whimpers. “I feel like something died in my mouth.”

“Lovely,” Enjolras tells him and watches as Grantaire blinks twice and then closes his eyes again, grimacing. “So, what do you remember?” he asks and he’s not sure what answer he’s hoping for.

“I swear, this Hangover shit should not be happening in real life, if I had to piece together some bullshit story of what happened last night...” he pauses and swallows, turning his head to the side to look at Enjolras. His eyes are impossibly blue, if a little red-rimmed. “Yeah, I remember,” he mutters. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can get an even easier divorce. Let’s wait past seventy-two hours though, I’m not emulating a Kardashian.”

Enjolras moves to stand up, too fast. His head, and his stomach, protest violently. It’s not as bad as his heart, though, so he’ll live. “Fine with me,” he nods and heads to the bathroom.

He stares into the mirror for a long time without really concentrating on his own reflection, but when he does, well. Cosette is going to straight up murder him when he shows up at the dinner tonight looking like this. 

Which might be preferable, now that he thinks of this. Which part of him, exactly, thought it was a good idea, any of it?

(He knows which part. The part that, when they pronounced them married and told them it was their moment to kiss, thrilled inside, and when Grantaire hesitated but stumbled forward, clearly uncertain if they were going to follow through with this part too, reached for him and said “put your money where your mouth is, R,” making Grantaire laugh and kiss him smiling. That part.)

“Are you dead in there?” Grantaire asks, knocking on the door. “Because Combeferre just knocked on your doors and asked if you are here and I didn’t know what to say so I ignored him and now I feel guilty.”

Yeah, Combeferre does that to you.

“Two minutes,” he yells back and gets into the shower, turning it cold. He almost screams when the water hits him, but on the plus side, he truly wakes up. He brushes his teeth and feels minutely more human, but only just.

Grantaire is still there when he gets back to the bedroom. He wondered if he would.

“I’m debating the relative merits of taking a shower here or doing the walk of shame now,” he tells Enjolras, who shrugs.

“My bathroom is yours,” he says flatly and gets an unimpressed look for his trouble.

“That’s funny,” Grantaire mutters, his face clearly indicating it’s anything but. “Seriously, I know I do stupid shit when I’m drunk, and also when I’m not, but you really should know better, Apollo,” he mutters and heads into the bathroom. 

“You don’t...” Enjolras starts and gives up, because he’d rather not talk to the closed doors, and Grantaire already has the water running. “Fuck,” he mutters wholeheartedly and sits down on the bed, thumbing through his phone to text Combeferre and tell him he’s alive, he’s fine (debatable) and he’s going to be downstairs in fifteen.

He considers calling for room service but he doesn’t know what would be worse, ordering breakfast for Grantaire or not, and he figures he can just get some coffee and a stale pastry at the gas station they’ll need to stop at.

“Fifteen minutes, downstairs,” he tells Grantaire when he comes out, hair wet and dripping onto the collar of his wrinkled shirt. 

“Alright. See you there, honey,” Grantaire drawls, smiling humorlessly before he leaves. 

Enjolras clenches his fists and can feel the cheap ring digging into his skin before starting to pack his things.

“You disappeared last night,” Combeferre says, not quite a question but still an inquiry, when Enjolras reaches the car. He also hands Enjolras a styrofoam cup of hot coffee and honestly, Enjolras doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have Combeferre.

Not that it always keeps him from doing stupid things.

“Alright, so,” he starts and sighs. It’s difficult to say in the light of day. “Grantaire. We got drunk and we got married. Please don’t comment, I’m really hungover and I think he’s even worse off.”

Combeferre stares at him and then stares at Grantaire once he joins them, sunglasses perched on his nose. Enjolras wishes he thought of that. Grantaire accepts coffee from Combeferre and wordlessly climbs into the back seat with a relieved sound once he lies down.

He isn’t wearing his ring.

It’s not important.

Combeferre gets into the car, closing the doors carefully and quietly, then starts the engine immediately turning the radio off. Then he leans back in his chair and looks at Enjolras, into the rearview mirror, and back at him. “You fucking did _what_?” he asks and isn’t quiet about it.

Enjolras flinches and Grantaire groans. “Jesus fuck, that was loud, ‘Ferre.”

“Can you just drive?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course I can,” Combeferre says, and does just that, “but if you think that means we’re not discussing this, you are sorely mistaken. I can multitask perfectly well and you two are explaining yourself.”

“Nothing to explain, I told you, we got drunk, we got into an argument, we got married.”

“Tale as old as time,” Grantaire hums, and then laughs, spiralling into a coughing fit. “Fuck, Apollo, but we really just fucked up your future political career, didn’t we?”

“Drunk, Vegas gay marriage and subsequent quickie divorce? What makes you say that?” Enjolras mutters, finding it doesn’t bother him. It should bother him that it doesn’t bother him, he supposes, but he’s more concerned with how his whole body reacts to the very idea of divorcing Grantaire before he even has a chance of knowing what being married to him would be like.

Fuck, he didn’t even know he wanted this. Sure, he’s in love with Grantaire, he’s established that much, but still...

The realisation that this is a forever thing, that he doesn’t expect there to be anyone else, ever, while he knows full well Grantaire wants out of this as soon as possible, married him because he was drunk and angry and because they were playing the weirdest game of chicken on the planet, and...

All Grantaire wanted from his was a one night stand and Enjolras fucked this up.

“Wait, you’re getting a divorce?” Combeferre says, and now the look he’s giving Enjolras is worried, pitying. 

Grantaire snorts. “Obviously. Why wouldn’t we? And hey, maybe if you two put your lawyer ninja brains together, you can figure out a way for Enjolras to get an annulment.”

“Not difficult, you were both drunk as skunks,” Combeferre mutters. “It’s a wonder they let you get married.”

“He is pretty damn coherent when he’s drunk, and I’ve had practice. Annulment then, hey, good,” Grantaire mutters, raising his hand to make a shaky thumbs up at them. “I thought it was going to be something about pretending to be cousins or that bit about not consummating the marriage, is that a thing?”

“According to church it is,” Enjolras. “Or if one of us concealed impotency, which we both know isn’t the case,” he says bitterly. 

If this must end, if this can’t last, he wishes he had some tangible proof they _were_ married, that it happened. He doesn’t want the fucking annulment and he doesn’t know how to say it.

“Wait, what? You were drunk enough to _get married_ but sober enough to fuck afterwards?” Combeferre asks, sounding both scandalised and impressed. 

“No, that was before,” Enjolras says flatly. “We’ve had what I have been assured is officially referred to as a one night stand,” he adds, and he knows he’s being an asshole, he can hear his tone well enough, but he doesn’t think he cares right now. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire mutters, _finally_ some emotion other than annoyance in his voice, and it’s a warning and a plea but mostly Enjolras finds it curious that this is the moment he seems to remember his name. 

“I need to get some sleep,” he says, cutting the conversation short. He leans against the window and closes his eyes. “I suggest you do the same, R, you look like shit.”

The drive is completely quiet after this, and he eventually falls asleep.

*

Eponine is waiting for them on the steps of his building. “What the fuck is your damage?” she hisses, grabbing Enjolras’ arm hard enough to dig her fingernails in and glaring between him and Grantaire.

“How,” Enjolras says and she rolls her eyes at him.

“How do you think, Combeferre texted me.”

“You were texting and driving?” Enjolras asks, scandalised.

“That’s what you have a problem with, Apollo?” Grantaire mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Honestly.”

“Cut the old married couple shtick and explain to me what were you thinking,” Eponine says and Enjolras sighs, glancing at his watch. 

“Alright, this conversation can be continued in my apartment, behind closed doors and where Mrs. Novik is not watching from her kitchen window, or it can end right here, your choice, ‘Ponine, and I advise the latter.”

Grantaire steps back and hoist his bag over his shoulder. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go and change and possibly drink a bucket of coffee.”

“There’s coffee in my apartment,” Enjolras points out and wants to kick himself for it, because fuck, how many times and in how many ways can Grantaire tell him he doesn’t want him? This is bordering on ridiculous and he needs to stop fooling himself. “Right, I’ll see you at the dinner, then,” he mutters and heads upstairs.

He can hear Eponine’s heels clicking behind him but Combeferre hangs back, asking if Grantaire needs a ride home.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Combeferre says. “Get in, it’s on my way,” he adds and Enjolras knows it’s untrue but at least Grantaire will get home safely and fast.

He fumbles with his keys for an embarrassingly long moment, under Eponine’s watchful gaze. “You’re wearing a ring,” she says, once he lets them in and drops his suitcase in the hallway, heading straight for the coffee machine. 

“Observant as ever.”

“Grantaire wasn’t,” she says and he pushes the machine’s buttons viciously and stares at the dark liquid filling the cup. 

“Nothing gets past you.”

“Are you okay?” she asks, moving to stand on the other side of the kitchen counter, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand. She sounds gentle, the tone Enjolras heard her use with Combeferre and Gavroche and Cosette, never with him. 

Well, rarely with him.

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “You want some coffee?”

“You’ve known me for how long now, Enjolras?”

“You always want coffee?’ he guesses and she nods.

“Yes. But also, you are not fine. You are not in the same state as fine. Probably not on the same continent.”

He wants to protest and argue and lie again, but it feels good to hear her say it, something unfurling in his chest and rising to his throat. He pushes the cup towards her and starts on another coffee. “What did Combeferre tell you? The drunk part and the marriage part, I guess. The one night stand?”

“Yeah, and it’s really your week for dumbass decisions. Don’t make any investments.”

“Did you know I was in love with him?” he asks quietly and she reaches out and laces their fingers together. He almost flinches away when she touches the ring.

“I’ve figured as much, yeah.”

“Well, I didn’t realise how badly,” he mutters and she doesn’t let go of his hand but walks around the counter and hugging him, letting him stumble and fall down onto the kitchen chair. She doesn’t let go, just cards her fingers through his hair.

“Alright, we need to stop wallowing for today,” she says brightly and he rolls his eyes at her. “Two days, you can more than go through this. You guys need to talk, you seriously need to talk, but wait after Cosette’s wedding because don’t take me wrong, but you two are a disaster and she deserves a nice day.”

“I’m pretty sure talking won’t help. He wants an annulment,” he says darkly and Eponine pulls back, tapping his jaw.

“Ask him why, okay,” she mutters, then frowns at him. “Fuck, you look like you’ve been run over. Have you been been crying, or is Grantaire so good in bed you look wrecked two days later?”

“Go away,” he mutters, but he feels a smile tug at his lips anyway. It’s probably insanity settling in. “And yes.”

“Ugh, fuck, TMI you asshole,” she says and picks up her bag. “Call me if you need something and for the love of god, Enjolras, don’t do anything stupid in the next four hours.”

“I shall try,” he tells her mournfully. He intends to sleep through them, so that should be easy.

“Yeah, right.”

*

Few weeks ago, Cosette and Eponine have spent an entire day in Enjolras’ living room with large sheets of paper and packs of post-its and colorful bookmark tags Eponine stole from Combeferre, swearing their way through trying to figure out the seating arrangement for the wedding.

Neither Cosette nor Marius have much of an actual family - it’s her Dad and his... well, there’s Javert; and she has some uncle that isn’t her uncle; and then there’s Marius’ Grandfather and aunt, and that would be pretty much it, smallest wedding imaginable, if it weren’t for all their friends, all the people Marius’ Grandfather wants to invite, and then the gaggle of nuns Cosette wants to be there.

At least Eponine seems to have some fun with color coding.

The dinner tonight is a smaller affair, just the happy couple and their friends. Valjean and Marius’ grandfather are set to make an appearance, but they’ve both apparently decided to leave early, “let you youngsters have fun,” as Marius’ grandfather says.

The best thing about this, if you ask Enjolras, is that it means he doesn’t have to wear a tie.

“You look tired,” Cosette says, hugging him at the door of the restaurant they’ve rented out for the night. “So, was Vegas really that bad? I’ve heard Joly made a fortune,” she adds and good, no one told her.

“It wasn’t as terrible as I expected,” he tells her flatly, “but that isn’t saying much.”

It makes her laugh as he intended and she lets go of him with a final kiss to the cheek before hugging a couple of girls who Enjolras vaguely recognises as her coworkers. 

The worst thing about the dinner, if you ask Enjolras, is that he is seated opposite Grantaire, who seems determined not to look at him or speak to him if he can help it.

He’s quite animated otherwise, almost back to his usual self. If anyone bounces back from a hangover with no signs whatsoever, it’s Grantaire. But when Enjolras looks at him closely; and he honestly gives up the pretense after half an hour and doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s watching Grantaire, there is tightness to his smile and weariness in his eyes and he’s very far from okay.

Eponine gives him an all too knowing look and proceeds to drag Grantaire to the dancefloor, where Cosette and Marius has spent the last fifteen minutes making everyone feel inadequate, and Enjolras lets Combeferre pull him into a discussion about tax cuts.

When he looks around to search out Grantaire again, the man is nowhere to be seen and Eponine is dancing with Bousset and laughing her way through stubbed toes. She’s wearing combat boots, so it probably hurts him more than it does her.

“On the terrace,” Combeferre mutters, smiling kindly when Enjolras turns to look at him. “Don’t do anything moronic.”

Normally Enjolras would take offence at that, but he honestly doesn’t have a leg to stand on right now, given his track record in the past few days. What he should do, he supposes, is excuse himself, plead a headache or anything else, and go home and go to sleep and put the ring in a drawer and snap it shut and for fuck’s sake, stop looking at it every five seconds, stop playing with it constantly, just stop...

Grantaire is sitting at one of the metal chairs outside; most of the others are upturned and placed on the tables and Enjolras reaches for one, setting it upright before sitting down. Grantaire sends him a suspicious look but surrenders his cigarette when Enjolras reaches out for it. 

He exhales the smoke and watches it slowly disappear into the night air.

“I feel like all my bad habits are rubbing off on you,” Grantaire mutters. “What’s next, Apollo?”

Enjolras grimaces and hands over the cigarette. “Seriously, do I need to make a ‘hello, my name is’ plaque?”

“Why are you still wearing the ring? It’s bound to elicit questions,” he adds and he’s still not looking at Enjolras, his gaze fixed straight ahead. His left hand is gripping the armrest tightly, knuckles white. 

Enjolras shrugs. “Can’t take it off,” he says; the truth coated in a lie, and he’s hoping Grantaire will assume it just got stuck. Hopes he’ll push him for a real answer anyway.

“Your finger is green.”

“I’ll live.”

Silence stretches between them and Enjolras can’t quite understand how it can be comfortable. How can it be that even now, when things are fucked up as the are, he can still enjoy himself like this, listening to Grantaire’s slow breathing.

“I don’t understand you at all,” Grantaire mutters quietly, like he’s unwilling to disturb the moment of peace but needs to say it anyway. “You’re angry with me and yet you won’t take the ring off. You married me because you were drunk and because you have serious issues with anyone telling you you can’t do something, and yet you balk at the idea of annulment.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Enjolras says automatically. His pulse sped up the moment Grantaire started talking and it’s rushing now, drowning out the thoughts he’s trying to gather to form a response.

Grantaire laughs. “You’ve been furious since you woke up this morning and realised we got hitched, Apollo, don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, moving the chair abruptly, leaving skid marks on the floor. He leans forward, hands on his knees, his face inches away from Grantaire’s. “I’ve been furious since I woke up yesterday and you were gone,” he says and realises that it’s true, that under the confusion and disappointment there was the undercurrent of anger and that’s probably why they’re sitting here now and he has a cheap ring turning his finger green and he still refuses to take it off.

Grantaire stares at him, shaking his head vehemently. “I was making it easier. What would you have me do, Enjolras?”

“Have the decency to stay for breakfast, maybe.”

“And then what?” Grantaire asks and his hands are shaking. He tosses the cigarette to the ground and grinds it with his shoe, wiping his hand against his pants and letting his fingers curl around the material. “Have coffee and pancakes and fuck again in the shower and try and postpone the inevitable realisation that we’d be terrible together and that more often than not I piss you the fuck off?”

And he’s not sure what spurs him on, is it the realisation that this is exactly what he wants, the pancakes and the showers and more of it and forever, or is it the way Grantaire’s face is flushed and he’s breathing harshly almost into Enjolras’ mouth, but he’s leaning in and tugging at Grantaire’s shirt roughly and clashing their mouths together. 

Grantaire makes a surprised sound Enjolras is more than happy to swallow and there’s less than a second where he tenses against him but then he’s pressing into the kiss, and it’s like he’s fighting back in a way, like he wants Enjolras to _feel_ him, his mouth and teeth and hands.

“Come home with me,” Enjolras says, pleads, in-between the kisses.

“I don’t understand you at all,” Grantaire repeats softly, whispering it against Enjolras’ lips as he pulls back. 

Enjolras moves to stand up and tugs at Grantaire’s arm to pull him up as well. He finds himself unable to let go of him even for a second. This might turn out to be a problem, but he doesn’t care right now. “Are we sneaking out or should we make our excuses?”

“Sneaking out. Honestly, I _am_ a bad influence on you,” Grantaire mutters with amazement and Enjolras has to kiss him again, licking into his mouth until Grantaire laughs and pulls back. “Let’s sneak out. Cosette will forgive us and Marius won’t notice.”

That’s absolutely true and convenient to Enjolras’ plans, which are to not let go and drag Grantaire into his car. It’s a blessing he doesn’t live far away because a speeding ticket would derail them. 

They stumble inside again and Enjolras hits his elbow on the coat rack and swears into Grantaire’s neck and then swears again when Grantaire unceremoniously sticks his hand down Enjolras’ pants, no preamble or warning. 

And part of Enjolras wants to drag this out, move slowly, catalogue every detail like he didn’t the first time. But another, greater part of him, needs Grantaire naked and in his bed, writhing against the sheets, and that’s the part that’s also determined to make sure there are other times, that he’ll get to know Grantaire’s body entirely and completely, that he will touch every inch of him and follow it with kisses, that he will have this. 

He pushes Grantaire onto the bed and kneels over him, catching his hand as they work to unbutton Enjolras’ shirt. He holds his wrists in his hands and runs his fingers over the blue veins, visible under the light skin. He can feel the pulse rushing under his fingertips. “Fair warning, before I forget. If you try and leave in the morning, next time I’ll tie you up and keep you here until I’m satisfied.”

Grantaire shivers and groans, straining to meet Enjolras’ lips with his own. It’s a wordless request Enjolras will gladly grant. “You’re confusing punishment with incentive, Enjolras.”

“I can show you incentives,” Enjolras mutters, reaching to undo Grantaire’s pants, lowering his grey cotton boxers over his dick. He takes it in hand and strokes slowly, looking up only when Grantaire continues to be suspiciously quiet. 

Grantaire is watching him, eyes wide open, fingers grasping at the sheets as he bites his lower lip. He looks like he might come any second now, just from Enjolras’ hand on his dick for those few seconds. Enjolras isn’t completely opposed to this.

“You look lost for words,” he offers and Grantaire makes a good effort of glaring at him. Enjolras rewards it with leaning in and taking him into his mouth, as much as he can comfortably fit in.

“Fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire groans and while Enjolras always likes how his name (his actual name) sounds on Grantaire’s tongue, he thinks this right here, the way he draws it out, pleading and wild, this is his favorite sound in the whole world. He’d look for ways to set it as his damn ringtone if he was willing to share it.

“That could be arranged,” he mutters, and Grantaire laughs, or tries to, before reaching out to tug at Enjolras’ hair, pulling him up and closer.

“That was terrible,” he says, rolling them over and moving to straddle Enjolras’ hips. “Like honestly, all of those speeches you gave ever since I’ve known you, this was the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I said worse things,” Enjolras mutters, and he means _to you_ and he’s pretty sure Grantaire knows that, because he closes his eyes for a second and breathes out before looking down at him again, eyes clear and kind. 

“No, seriously, this was the worst,” he says decisively and reaches for Enjolras’ cock, at the same time grasping at his own, moving his hips lazily as he strokes them both. Enjolras make a disagreeing sound and Grantaire shakes his head, flicking his thumb over Enjolras’ dick. “Like you honestly believe either one of us is going to last more than ten seconds at this moment? We can fuck properly in the morning, if you seriously insist,” he adds long-sufferingly even though he’s smiling down at Enjolras.

And if that’s a promise, and he knows Grantaire well enough to know he’ll make good on it, then it’s something he can live with. More than live with. Alright, the very thought of the morning, of this lasting, of having this, is enough to make him come embarrassingly well under those ten seconds. 

Grantaire gladly lets himself be pulled down for a long, lazy kiss, but starts stirring after some time. 

“First warning,” Enjolras mutters and gets a snort in return.

“I’m getting a towel, Enjolras, relax,” Grantaire mutters and pads barefoot into the bathroom and back. Enjolras busies himself with removing the rest of his clothes and then does the same for Grantaire, once he is done with the cleanup. He contemplates pajamas and discards the idea in favor of draping himself over naked Grantaire, his face in Grantaire’s neck. 

It’s only after a while, when he’s almost falling asleep, that he feels Grantaire’s lips on his forehead and his hand turning Enjolras’ in his, running his fingertips over Enjolras’ ring.

*

He wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest and Grantaire’s hair tickling his nose.

It’s quickly shaping up to be a great day, if you ask him.

“Move over, I need to get up,” he says and Grantaire mutters something uncharitable at him before raising his head.

“I thought the whole point was not leaving, make up your fucking mind.”

“I need to get up to start on the coffee and pancakes,” he offers seriously and Grantaire stares at him, still sleepy eyes slowly focusing.

“You realise I was kidding, right?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call that a joke,” he says flatly and then rolls them to the side so he can lean in and kiss Grantaire slowly, ignore their morning breaths and not give a fuck about the crick in his neck and that his arm has fallen asleep. 

He stayed.

Enjolras asked, and he stayed. 

“I need coffee if I am to function properly for the day, and there’s the wedding to go through,” he mutters against Grantaire’s jaw. “And I haven’t had pancakes for a while, so that’s a good idea,” he says against his neck, before scraping his teeth over the mark he left there. Grantaire groans, his back arching and Enjolras hums in approval. “And yes, I want to fuck you in the shower afterwards. Except maybe not literally, because we should do that properly when we have more time, I was thinking more along the lines of sucking you off for today.”

“You can’t say things like that,” Grantaire says vehemently and Enjolras raises his head, pausing in his slow exploration of Grantaire’s chest.

“Which part are you opposed to?”

“Shit,” Grantaire says, running his hand over his face and breathing into his hand. “You can’t say things like that and then divorce me afterwards,” he says and Enjolras stares at him, trying to make sense of it.

“Grantaire,” he starts and Grantaire shakes his head, kneeling up in the bed, looking down at him. 

“By some wonder you want me now, and that’s still fucking unbelievable, but it’s bound to pass, Apollo, you’ll want to be rid of me soon enough. And I was fine with it, fine with one night if that was all I could get, and I even thought I’d be fine with a few more, provided I kept telling myself not to get too attached,” he laughs, like there’s a joke there, and it’s bitter like he knows perfectly well it’s not funny. “But the ring is stuck on your finger and it turns out I’m terrible at not hoping, and you can’t keep saying this like that, Apollo.”

“Do you know why I fucking hate it when you call me that?” Enjolras asks, and he’s surprised by the hoarse tone of his own voice, by the anger in it. Grantaire seems to, judging by the way his eyes widen. “Because it’s you building up an image of me that I could never reach and in this moment I wouldn’t want to. You’re the one who wants this over with, Grantaire, since the moment you woke up and you realised you married me. You want it gone without a trace, like it never happened.”

“Shouldn’t have happened,” Grantaire mutters and Enjolras nods, moving to stand up. He reaches for his pants, strewn on the floor, and puts them on. 

“Here,” he says, pulling off his ring easily and tossing it to Grantaire. “Like it never happened, right?” he asks and doesn’t stare at his hand, where there’s still the impression of the ring on his finger, and the green discoloration around it. 

The anger leaves him fast, pretty much the moment he closes the bedroom doors behind him, and he barely makes it to the kitchen before wanting to go back. It's colder here, outside of the bedroom, away from Grantaire's touch, and no place on his skin feels colder than his ring finger.

He concentrates on choosing the program on the coffee machine and takes out two mugs, wondering why he’s even going through the motions. 

He takes a quickly abandoned half step back towards the bedroom but then the doors are opening and Grantaire walks out, dressed and frowning.

He's wearing a ring and for a moment Enjolras thinks it's his, but then Grantaire lays down the other one on the counter with a clink and shrugs, leaning against the cupboard, his arms crossed over his chest like he's trying to protect himself from something. From Enjolras.

Enjolras doesn't move, not even to pick up the ring yet, no matter how much he wishes he could. 

"This can't be what you want," Grantaire says finally.

"I probably wouldn't have married you if I wasn't drunk," Enjolras admits freely, that much they both know. "I haven't even considered marriage before and I never thought you'd want that with anyone."

Grantaire doesn't answer and Enjolras sighs before he continues. 

"But you're insane to think all I wanted was a one night stand. When have you ever known me to have one night stands?"

"You could have been really sneaky about it," Grantaire points out, but even he seems to realize the ridiculousness of his statement. "So, what is it you want? Or, wanted?" he asks, so careful, and Enjolras wants to shake him so badly in this moment, because he doesn't want careful, he doesn't want hesitant, not from Grantaire, who is the very opposite of that, has always been the untamed force of nature destroying all of Enjolras' walls and what business does he have now, being careful?

"I told you already," he mutters.

"What, coffee and pancakes and fucking in the shower? This isn't a romantic comedy, Enjolras."

"Well, clearly. And I want to you to give me a chance. I want you to stop acting like we're standing on the edge of a cliff and the only way this could end is disastrously. And I want, if we end up getting a divorce, I want to ask you out afterwards."

"You want to go on a date after we get a divorce," Grantaire says flatly, like he wants to clarify he heard him correctly. "Do you ever listen to yourself?"

"You do, so I don't think you should be pronouncing judgement. And it can be an annulment, if you really want that, but then you better definitely say yes to the date."

Grantaire uncrosses his arms just to nervously tap out something against the counter. Enjolras vaguely recognizes it and knows its going to be bothering him. “So, here’s the question for you. Why don’t you want the annulment?”

“I don’t want to pretend it never happened.”

“Well, you always were one to own up to your mistakes,” Grantaire offers and Enjolras stares at him, and the thing is, in this moment, either Grantaire is tired of this or he just doesn’t care about hiding anymore, and his expression is a far cry from the schooled down mask he’s been putting up ever since they slept together for the first time.

And if Enjolras thought he knew about fear and hope, if he felt broken and adrift, if he thought he knew confusion and helplessness; it was nothing compared to what he sees on Grantaire’s face now. He hadn’t even begun to feel the aching _want_ , but now he thinks he’s starting to.

“Grantaire,” he whispers and reaches out, and doesn’t even know when he takes those few steps that separate them. Grantaire leans into his touch easily, lets Enjolras take his face in his hands and kiss him, a low sound in his throat that makes Enjolras shiver in return.

He’s already found out before that touching Grantaire is addictive, but this is ridiculous, the way his skin itches at the points of contact and he yearns to feel that all over. Grantaire mutters something he doesn’t quite catch but can’t concentrate enough to ask about it because Grantaire is mouthing his way along Enjolras’ jaw and well, this is distracting.

“Hey, I,” he starts, pulling back, trying to focus on Grantaire’s face, only to be interrupted by the loud beep from the coffee machine as it starts the self-cleaning process.

“Your coffee is getting cold,” Grantaire tells him, then grins at the probably disgruntled way Enjolras frowns at the mugs. “You were the one so set on this. Come on, I’ll make the pancakes.”

“Just drink your coffee and then come shower with me,” Enjolras says, downing his own in one go. It’s still warm, but not as hot as he usually likes and he can’t bring himself to care.

“What about the pancakes?” Grantaire says teasingly and honestly, they need to stop talking about the pancakes right now.

“I’ll survive without them somehow.”

“And yet you won’t survive without blowing me in the shower?”

Enjolras gives him a look. “I might not. Are you willing to take the change?” he asks, calling up his best serious look and Grantaire stumbles on his way to join him, shaking his head as he declares it unfair for Enjolras to say things like that.

It’s almost exactly what he said before but he’s smiling now, looking almost like he’s happy. Enjolras can work with that. He can strive to keep that look on his face, make the grin widen, make the frown disappear. 

There’s nothing Enjolras likes more than a challenge, than a project, than a cause, and Grantaire isn’t any of that (Enjolras vows that he’ll never be that, never something to fight, to overcome, to change) but if there’s a useful application of his zeal, it’s Grantaire’s happiness. 

He stops in his tracks halfway towards the bedroom and raises his hand. “Wait a second,” he mutters and walks back, picking the ring up from the counter and slipping it back onto his finger.

“Enjolras.”

“You’re wearing yours,” Enjolras tells him with barely hidden satisfaction and Grantaire keeps staring at him for a few seconds.

“You actually like it when I do,” he mutters, like he’s only realising it now. Honestly, where has he been? “Alright then,” he mutters and continues towards the bedroom, already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

Enjolras would like to point out that he wouldn’t have to if he didn’t insist on dressing in the first place, but the show he’s getting right now isn’t bad, so he won’t ruin it by complaining. 

*

Grantaire leaves with just enough time to get back to his own place and change before the wedding. They kiss for a long while in the hallway before Enjolras lets him go, and he finds himself a little adrift afterwards, buzzing with nervous energy he doesn’t quite understand.

He sets out his clothes and goes through the notes for his speech one more time and realises there’s no way he can say any of this and trashes the whole thing. He has no time to write a new one, so improvisation it is, and it’s probably going to be the worst one he’s ever given, no matter what Grantaire says.

The wedding is perfect, as if anyone had any doubts, and goes on without a hitch as something planned by Cosette and Eponine is bound to. Eponine has threatened Courfeyrac with bodily harm if he even thinks about pretending to lose the rings, so he’s pouting his way through the moment, but produces them on cue anyway and Enjolras, who’s standing right next to him, doesn’t even have to poke him in the ribs.

And that’s a good thing, because he spends most of the ceremony looking at Grantaire in the second row and grinning like an idiot, to the point he probably looks like he’s insane.

Never did he have such a profound understanding of Marius. If this is how Pontmercy feels all the time, Enjolras owes him a serious apology.

At the reception, he reaches out under the table to take Grantaire’s hand, and even though he startles, he lets Enjolras lace their fingers together, smiling.

“Five bucks says Courfeyrac catches the bouquet,” he offers and Enjolras gives him a look.

“Are you angling for another lecture on gambling?”

“Didn’t work that badly for me the last time,” Grantaire says philosophically and laughs at Enjolras’ expression. Enjolras wants to lean in and taste that smile of his, but they haven’t yet talked about whether this... They haven’t talked about quite a few things yet.

He settles for squeezing Grantaire’s hand and turning his attention to Valjean, who offers the first toast and makes Cosette tear up and Marius openly cry.

“This is more of a wedding that you should have,” Grantaire says quietly, enough so that Enjolras almost doesn’t catch it. He looks at him incredulously and then nods sharply.

“Sure, except my father wouldn’t come to it, less alone give a speech. And the color scheme is really not something I would have chosen,” he adds and Grantaire rolls his eyes at him, still looking thoughtful in a way Enjolras doesn’t like. He’s about to ask when Courfeyrac comes back to his seat and stares at Enjolras.

“You’re up next, but don’t worry, yours won’t be more awesome than mine, so there’s really no pressure,” he smiles. “Still, ready your cue cards.”

“I’m winging it,’ Enjolras tells him, quite enjoying the way Courfyerac’s jaw drops. 

“Fuck, this is going to be like that rally in DC our senior year, isn’t it. That was the worst, Enjolras.”

“We’ve made our voices heard,” Enjolras tells him primly while Grantaire is laughing into his sleeve quite openly. “I’d hardly compare that to a wedding speech, Courfeyrac.”

“Well, clearly, you wouldn’t,” Courfeyrac says darkly. “But I’ve seen what happens when you go off script and it’s not pretty, not pretty at all.”

“Shut up, DC was great,” Grantaire mutters and Courfeyrac stares at him in turn.

“Didn’t you end up in the same jail cell as him?” he asks, pointing his thumb at Enjolras and shaking his head. “I swear, you both.”

“You honestly don’t have a speech prepared?” Grantaire asks quietly, ignoring Courfeyrac’s still incredulous mutterings. “Do you at least know what you want to say?”

“I’ll think of something,” he offers, even though he thinks he might have a pretty good idea of what he wants to say. Maybe he shouldn’t say all of it in front of everyone _and_ the nuns Cosette grew up with, so he’s going to have to do some editorialising on the spot. That’s fine.

Eponine waves at him and he nods back, getting up to walk to the makeshift stage. Cosette grins brightly at him and pokes at Marius to pay attention. Pontmercy looks like he would much rather get Cosette out of there and Enjolras can’t quite blame him.

“I have been told that my giving this speech is going to be interesting, given that I know nothing of relationships, let alone marriage,” he starts and he can hear Courfeyrac agreeing loudly. “In fact, the first time Marius told us he met Cosette, I told him to grow up, and that relationships are a distraction. In my defence, his poems were atrocious and he can’t rhyme to save his life.”

Cosette laughs and pats Marius on the shoulder consolingly while he’s shrugging and nodding.

“I have since learned that Pontmercy is a much wiser man than I.” There’s a chorus of mock gasps coming from their table and Enjolras makes a note to remember the culprits. Flipping them off right now would be undignified, however, so he continues. “Even disregarding the obvious fact that Cosette is an angel and Marius has done well for himself and he might even some day deserve her... but Marius has figured out what I had yet to learn: that the right person isn’t a distraction, but is your strength. That you don’t know how lost you are until you find them,” he says and dares to look at Grantaire now.

He’s no longer at the table, but instead moved to stand by the trees all the way across the reception area, directly opposite the stage. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and his hair is a mess somehow, like he’s carded his fingers nervously through them a few times, but his eyes are fixed on Enjolras.

“I know I’m reciting cliches, I can hear you glaring, Jehan,” he mutters and gets a cheery wave in return, “but given the circumstances I believe I should be excused. Until very recently I have not given much thought to marriage, outside of the context of necessary equality and legal realm...”

“This is way worse than DC,” he hears Courfeyrac say.

“...but you have shown that it’s more than commitment and love and filling out taxes together and for god’s sake, Marius, consult someone before you do. The vows you have exchanged today are linking you together forever, no matter how your lives turn out; you’ll keep carrying a part of the other person and they shall forever have a part of you to keep,” he can hear his voice getting more quiet, and he knows perfectly well who he’s speaking to. It’s probably the right moment to stop and find him, then. “So, here’s to Marius Pontmercy, the smartest man I know. I’m saying this only once, don’t get used to it,” he adds flatly to general laughter. “And to Cosette Pontmercy,” he can see her gasp with delight at the use of her new name, “honestly, he doesn’t deserve you, but he might come close.”

He walks down the steps from the stage and Cosette flounces over, almost trampling two nuns on her way to hug him. Then she pulls away and punches him in the shoulder. Hard. 

“You married Grantaire in Vegas,” she tells him. As if he didn’t realise.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” she says and punches him again, even harder, and she might look like someone who has her chores done by birds and woodland creatures, but that girl packs a mean punch. Two years ago Grantaire took her to where he boxes and she _loved_ it and _ow_.

“Don’t you have bridesmaids to terrorise, or a cake to cut, or something?” he asks her, rubbing at his shoulder. She hums thoughtfully and reaches out to fiddle with his tie, first attempting to fix it (he must have tugged it all out of shape during the speech without noticing) and then frowning and taking it off him. He sighs with relief and undoes the top buttons of his shirt.

“It’s ridiculous how good you look,” she mutters, sounding mildly offended. “But that’s probably a good thing now. He went that way,” she waves her hand towards the artificial lake some way away from the reception area.

He gives her a grateful smile and ignores the fact that she’s laughing at him when he tries to look dignified and not at all like he’s running. 

Grantaire is spread out on the grass, his jacket folded under his head, eyes closed against the sun. “The jokes were a bit predictable, but for an unscripted speech, I give it an eight,” he offers when Enjolras reaches him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but there’s a smile in the corner of his mouth.

Enjolras takes off his own jacket and sits down on it, fumbling with the buttons on his cuffs. They do not want to cooperate but he manages somehow and rolls his sleeves up. “I forgot to say something.”

“In the speech? I’m sure they’ll give you the microphone back for a few.”

“This morning. Well, afternoon, I guess,” he says, and he’s not stalling, not quite, he just wants Grantaire to look at him when he says this. He opts to kick his ankle. It works well enough. “Stay married to me.”

Grantaire props himself up on his elbows and considers him. Enjolras wants to be kissing him now, wants him to agree _now_ , but what he needs is for Grantaire to understand what he means. How much he means this.

“Longer than seventy-two hours, you mean.”

“I’d much rather start with dating you properly, but there’s little point in getting a divorce when I think I’ll be asking you to marry me at some point anyway.”

“This might not work out, Enjolras,” Grantaire warns him, but he’s sitting up, crawling that bit closer into Enjolras’ space already, and Enjolras will make this work out, alright?

“We can’t fuck up more than we did already,” he points out reasonably and Grantaire huffs out a laugh. “I love you.”

Grantaire breathes in sharply, resting his hand on Enjolras’ knee, fingers digging in. “See, you could have started with that, before...”

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Enjolras mutters and Grantaire doesn’t correct him, just bows his head, looking down at his hand. He’s wearing the ring now, and no, Enjolras is not over this yet. He kisses Grantaire’s forehead, then taps at his chin to make him look up. “So,” he prompts.

“This is the worst proposal I’ve ever heard,” Grantaire tells him, looking for all the world like he’s trying not to smile.

“And you’re saying yes.”

“Honestly, you’re doing everything backwards.”

“And you’re saying yes,” Enjolras repeats, a bit forcefully, and Grantaire smiles before kissing him lightly. Well, it starts lightly, but then Enjolras proceeds to lick into Grantaire’s mouth and tangle his hand in his hair and it takes a sudden turn into not quite suitable for the semi-public space they’re in. “Grantaire.”

“I love you.”

“I am taking this as a yes,” Enjolras warns him.

Grantaire’s laughing when he tackles him to the ground, so he’s probably in agreement. 

*

“This is the worst photo of you I have _ever_ seen,” Grantaire announces gleefully when they get their wedding pictures in the mail, all eight glossy pages of them. Enjolras completely forgot they even took them, less alone ordered copies.

“You look like a raccoon on drugs,” Enjolras points out.

“I’m making this my facebook cover photo.”

“You don’t even have a facebook.”

Grantaire shrugs, completely unperturbed. “I’m sending this as our Christmas card.”

“You haven’t send a Christmas card in your life and I’m pretty sure you won’t start this year.”

Grantaire gives him a look that plainly says that Enjolras is one step away from getting a whole barrel full of lawyer jokes and he won’t like a single one of them. “I’m hanging all of these up in our bedroom.”

Enjolras frowns at him, then at the photos. They look drunk, Grantaire really does look like a raccoon, one who got into the wrong trashcan; and Enjolras is squinting in every picture, his shirt is undone, and his hair looks like he’s been worked over by a tornado.

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters and helps Grantaire find the hammer and nails to put them up.

**Author's Note:**

> Write a romantic comedy trope, they said.
> 
> It will be fun, they said.
> 
> Those two are bent on breaking my heart no matter what I write. But hey, we got to the happy ending so (I'll always get to the happy ending even if it kills me, I swear).
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr: realitycheckbounced. Watch me lose my sanity and insult les mis characters and cast in the tags because they happen to have stupid faces. 
> 
> (Also, thank you to everyone who leaves kudos and comments, you are all so amazingly lovely.)


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